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One battle-weary day, a young woman pricked her finger on a needle while stitching her husband’s torn flesh. Three drops of their mingled blood stained the snow beneath them and melted it from the ebony hilt of a dead enemy’s dirk. The sight brought on a vision of a beautiful daughter.

With a smile on her crimson lips, the young woman conveyed the image to her husband. And told him that if she ever spawned such a lovely girl child, she would kill her before she took her first breath.

Their third child, a girl, was a homely little thing. Both parents were pleased—the mother because an ugly daughter wasn’t a threat, the father because his spell would keep his precious child alive through the most fragile years of her life.

He knew the beauty she’d become.

Lips bitten blood red in ecstasy, hair black as ebony spilling over blue silk sheets, Rosemary reclined on the bed in all her naked glory. The reflection in the mirror on the wall evoked the story of her past; from the tragic beginning, to the happily ever after, but several details spoilt the fairy-tale princess image. Like the blotches on the white flesh of her breasts and thighs, where the dusting of scruff on Alaire’s sculpted cheeks and chin had scraped her raw. And the crimson bite marks on her neck and shoulders. In the fading afterglow, nearly every inch of her stung, reminiscent of the feeling of basking in the sun by the beach—luxurious—until the burn set in.

Rosemary shifted to find a comfortable position in the narrow space left to her on the double mattress. No matter which way she turned, her body hit hard flesh. She gave up when Chetan rolled to his side behind her to press his lips to a tender spot on her throat. Butterfly kisses, gentle to soothe her pain, chaste and sweet. But imprudent while the scent of their lovemaking saturated him because he smelled delicious, and even though she’d got dessert, she wouldn’t mind another nibble.

Body curved into his, she wiggled a little and felt his flaccid length stir. She let out a soft purr. “Chetan...”

Chetan chuckled into her hair and slid his hand over one puckered nipple, still sensitive from being sucked. “You’re insatiable, my love.” He kissed her shoulder. “Give me some time to recover and I’ll do my best to satisfy you.”

“You’ve had your turn.” Wylie squirted some aloe lotion into the palms of his strong, black hands and smoothed it over Rosemary’s legs. “If she’s still hungry, I can help her. She doesn’t have to wait.”

“I’m ready.” Alaire rolled over to prove it.

A loud grunt from the living room drew their attention to Largo, who shocked them all just by being awake. “You’ve had your turn too.”

The glossy pages of his sports magazine stuck to his cheek when he lifted his head. He stretched one long arm out and fumbled for the table lamp beside the sofa. The light pooled just past the open door and Largo squinted to make her out in the dark room. “Come here Rosemary, I got this.”

One of them, even two, she could handle. All four focusing on her at once snuffed the lingering desire, like too many logs piled over barely sparked kindling. She covered her face with her hands and willed the room to stop spinning.

A breathless laugh escaped her as her head cleared. “Someone pinch me. I’ve got to be dreaming.”

“You’re not dreaming.” Alaire took her hand and brought it to his lips. “If you were, I’m sure you’d do better than us dumb lugs.”

Wylie nudged Alaire and squeezed into the space allotted against the headboard. He pulled Rosemary into his lap and cradled her in his arms. “What girl dreams of being taken in a grungy dorm room?”

This girl, Rosemary wanted to say, but she didn’t, because he wouldn’t understand. They were all well aware of the life she’d left behind, but most had a hard time seeing beyond the big house in Memphis, the fancy clothes, the cars and credit cards.

Only two of her men could fully grasp why a girl raised in a neighbourhood like Belle Meade would be happier here, at Adcock College, living on a ‘historical’ campus two hours away from any decent sized city. The one with her now watched from the living room. When she caught his eye, he gave her a tense half-smile.

“You okay?” Largo mouthed.

Rosemary nodded and snuggled up to Wylie, head nestled in the crook of his neck. The scent of a forest of oaks after rainfall that seemed to saturate his flesh took her to a tranquil place—where she could bask in the simple luxury of yet another moment of living, where she didn’t have to explain how precious each one was.

It was hard sometimes, convincing herself that this was her life. Throughout her early years, the brutal honesty of her reflection showed her why she’d be condemned to a fatal existence of loneliness.

High school had been hell for very different reasons than most unsightly girls her age. They could look forward to a future where looks meant nothing, become successful because of brains or talent. They could find solace in the fact that one day all that made the popular girls special would fade. For Rosemary, each ugly day was one closer to the end. Without that coveted beauty, she wouldn’t live long enough for any of her other qualities to matter.

The day she’d turned from girl to woman, everything changed. The image in the mirror gave her hope. Her skin cleared overnight, became something like living porcelain, perfectly soft and smooth. Her hair, almost matte black, unruly and lanky, gained a thickness and depth of colour, flowing down her back in waves that suited her no matter how it was arranged. Even her body, always awkward, a little plump, too small, changed into a petite, slender form that looked good in any outfit. The loveliness brought tears to her eyes. Maybe, just maybe, she’d get that first kiss. Then that first touch. Then, when the time came, all she needed to survive.

Three years later and she had more than she’d dared hope for. Survival might still be a fragile thing, but it was possible. So many things were possible now.